Ne Veut pas le Risque
by TheShortestDetectiveOfThemAll
Summary: Destiel AU. Set in Paris in 1893. Dean is living in Paris when Castiel Novak from New York, New York comes into the small bar he's working in and changes everything. Warning: major character death
1. Chapter 1

**Paris, 1893**

"Bonjour, Monsieur Winchester!"

Dean waved to the young children passing outside the bar and smiled. These children had become his first friends when he had moved to Paris, and now passed by every morning to say hello. He wiped down the bar counter with his filthy rag as he waited for his first customer of the day. Within minutes, a tall man with wild black hair walked in, a suitcase in each hand.

"Bonjour," he said, "Je cherche pour... un... appartement." His French was broken and bad, but Dean grinned at him.

"Quel est ton nationalité?" he asked, his French perfect after his first year in Paris.

"Je suis Americain."

"Oh, Americain? Moi, aussi. Parlez-vous anglais?"

"Yes" the man answered, a look of relief on his face.

"I'm Dean Winchester, Kansas native."

The mystery man smiled, "Castiel Novak. New York, New York."

"Hello, Castiel Novak. Nice to meet you. What brings you to Paris?"

"Travel... and of course, why else would I be in Paris if I wasn't looking for love?"

Dean grinned, "To tell you the truth, Castiel, that's part of the reason I'm here, too. Can I get you something to drink?"

"No, thank you. I need to find a small flat to rent while I'm here, and that takes priority over a drink at the moment."

"Of course. There's a few vacancies in my building, over there," he pointed to a dilapidated two-story building, "I could talk to the landlord if you'd like."

"Could you really? Thank you!"

"You're welcome."

* * *

One week later, Castiel had a job, working in a small café across from Dean's bar on Montmartre. Dean had spoken to his landlord and had gotten Castiel one of the vacant flats in the building. He was loving Paris, his favorite part being the nightlife, which Dean had taken him out to his first night in the city.

His French was still terrible, but he was able to understand and speak much better than he had been the week before. Castiel smiled and walked into the small boulangerie next to his building. He didn't need to be at work for another hour, and Dean had invited him to breakfast, requiring Castiel to buy a baguette. He paid and walked back to the building, a new spring in his step, excited to eat with Dean. Castiel couldn't help but feel like this was a friendship that was almost too good to be true, but he ignored the nagging feeling in the back of his mind telling him it was a bad idea to get involved with anyone.

It wasn't worth the risk.

"Good morning, Dean," Castiel said, tapping on his open door. He smiled, baguette in hand. Dean looked up from the book he was reading and smiled, inviting Castiel in.

"Good morning! How are you doing?"

"I'm well, thank you. How are you?"

"Fine, thanks." Dean set his book down, walking over to take the baguette from Castiel."Why don't you have a seat?" he continued, clearing his small table of a few books and a stack or two of paper.

"Thank you," Castiel said, a soft smile playing over his lips.

"I'm afraid I don't have much. I should have thought about it before I invited you over. I have some jam, and that's about it."

"That's fine. But that's the starving artist life isn't it? Living off of bread while we struggle to find ourselves?"

Dean huffed out a laugh and ripped a chunk out of the bread, much to Castiel's shock. He opened his mouth to speak, but Dean shook his head. "Don't you know you're supposed to eat some of it on the way back?" he asked, a smirk growing on his face.

"No slicing?"

"No slicing. Come on, Cas...tiel. Try it!"

Castiel was horrified. Eating with his hands? It was hardly civilized. He opened his mouth to speak, but Dean shoved a chunk of the fresh bread into his mouth.

"Dean!" he protested, the bread warm and soft.

"I can't hear you. I think you have bread in your mouth." Dean laughed, running a hand through his hair.

Castiel chewed and swallowed. "How did you learn to eat like this? It honestly terrifies me. I'm not used to it." He shook his head, reaching to rip another chunk of bread off of the loaf.

"Are you going out tonight?"

"I might. I've been wanting to see the Moulin Rouge."

Dean smiled wolfishly. "Then we'll go. I love the Moulin Rouge."

"You don't have to come," Castiel said, coughing into his hand. He took a deep breath, looking down and hoped for the best. Nothing. He exhaled in relief.

"Castiel you barely speak French. I can't let you loose on the streets of Paris just yet."

"Dean-"

"No. Besides, I'm your friend,and I can't let you go alone. Leaving, though. That's a different story." He smirked at Castiel, rising from his place.

Castiel felt his face grow warm, and he looked down at the floor. "I- I should probably get to work."

"Yes," Dean said, huffing out a laugh. "Tonight, though. Nine o'clock."

Castiel smiled. "Nine o'clock."

* * *

"Au revoir!" Castiel called as he exited the small café, walking the few blocks back to his building. As he made his way up to his flat, he realized he had some time to read a bit, maybe even write. He smiled, realizing this was the first time he would get to write in Paris. But when he grabbed a sheet of paper and a pen, he realized he had nothing to write about yet. Sighing, he set them both down and ran a hand through his hair.

Not yet, Castiel, he thought, smiling sadly to himself. Not yet. Soon. Something, at least, before... his thoughts were interrupted by a coughing fit, Castiel doubling over from the force.

"Damn," he muttered, breathing heavily. He looked at his hand and found that it was tinged with blood, his eyes growing wide. "No," Castiel whispered, frantically searching for a handkerchief in his pockets and wiping the blood away. He sat heavily on his bed, head in hands. This wasn't supposed to be happening now. Not when he had just gotten to Paris and made a friend.

He should never have gotten involved with anyone.

Castiel lay down on his bed, curling to one side, suddenly feeling faint. Maybe going out with Dean wasn't the best idea, but he had committed. He closed his eyes, slowly falling asleep.

Castiel woke to Dean knocking on his door and calling his name. He jumped up quickly from his bed and ran to the door, attempting to smooth his hair out. Opening the door, he smiled at Dean.

"Sorry," he said, "how long have you been knocking?"

"About two minutes."

"Is it already nine?"

"It's a quarter past. When you didn't show up, I thought you had forgotten."

"No. I just... fell asleep."

"Long day?" Dean asked.

"Yes," Castiel lied, sleepily rubbing his eyes.

"Are you still up for-"

"Yes. God, yes. I need to get out of my flat."

Dean led him out to the street, and they walked up the hill to the Moulin Rouge, the red windmill sitting atop the building, welcoming them.

"So, this is the Moulin Rouge?" Castiel asked, stepping up to the door.

"This is," Dean answered, "let's go in."

Castiel chuckled nervously, "all right."

The two entered the building, the music that was faint outside becoming much louder. Dean looked over to Castiel and smiled, the other man's eyes the size of discs, taking in the club.

"What do you think?" Dean asked, putting a hand on Castiel's shoulder.

"It's- certainly... new." Castiel was nervous and it was showing.

"You nervous?"

"Yes."

"Don't be. You won't have any problems here." Dean grinned.

"Meaning I won't be leaving with you?"

"Exactly."

"Oh." He followed Dean to a table where they sat, Castiel still looking around at the building. He was completely amazed by the grandeur of the room. The music, he decided, was his favorite. It was upbeat and fun, then he noticed the dancers.

His jaw dropped; it was amazing, to see so many women in the same place as he was. Then, the main performer of the night did her piece, and he was amazed by her.

"It's great, isn't it?" Dean asked, an hour into their excursion.

"This is fantastic!" Castiel smiled, looking down shyly.

"Go dance," Dean said, raising his eyebrows and smirking.

"No, that's really fine. I'm not much of a dancer," Castiel confessed, laughing a bit. "I've never been much of a dancer." His stomach twisted into a knot at this, and he wasn't sure why.

"Well, if it makes you feel any better, neither am I." Dean chuckled, "I guess we'll just have to sit this one out, right?"

"Yes, I suppose so."

"Is this what you had in mind when you thought about the Moulin Rouge?"

"I had a much less... spectacular image in mind."

"I understand that. I was disappointed my first time here."

"Really?"

"Yes. The stories I had heard- they were amazing, and I'd been hearing them for months, so imagine my disappointment when it didn't live up to the stories."

"Didn't live up to the stories?"

"The dancers, their stories of the women..."

"Ah."

"The dancers are beautiful, though. Aren't they?"

"Yes. Quite."

" Castiel smiled, placing both if his hands on the table. He gestured with his head that he was ready to leave. He was tired, most likely from his earlier coughing fit, and he wanted to sleep. Dean stood and offered Castiel his hand to help him up, and he took it gratefully, standing. The two walked out of the Moulin Rouge together, and both were silent, Castiel left to his thoughts.

"Didn't you say... leaving was a different story?" He asked this tentatively, not sure how Dean would respond.

"I did, didn't I? I never said you wouldn't be leaving with somebody."

"Dean, what are you trying to sa-" Castiel was cut off as Dean whisked him around the corner of the building.

"Are you surprised?"

"No," Castiel answered, entwining his fingers through Dean's. His eyes shone a brighter blue as he leaned into Dean, their lips meeting softly. Dean smiled into the kiss, bringing his free hand up to the back of Castiel's neck.


	2. Chapter 2

Castiel smiled as he woke the next morning, memories of the night before still running through his mind.

_"That was… unexpected."_

_"I'm sorry. I just got ahead of myself."_

_"It's fine, Cas. Really." Dean cleared his throat. "You know, we could be-"_

_"But what if someone found out? I couldn't do that to you, Dean."_

_"This is Paris. We're fine."_

_"You don't know that."_

A knock sounded at his door, and Castiel rose from his bed, rubbing his face and running a hand through his hair. He opened the door a crack, peering out into the hallway.

"Morning, Castiel," Dean said, a wolfish grin on his face.

Castiel cleared his throat. "Hello, Dean."

"Are you going to invite me in?" Dean asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Yes, yes of course. Come in." As he swung the door open, Dean pressed a kiss to Castiel's mouth, propelling the two of them into Castiel's small flat. "Dean!" Castiel said, grabbing onto his shoulders as they fell to the ground.

"I've got you. It's okay. It's okay." Dean stood, helping Castiel to his full height. "You awake now?" he asked, smirking.

"Slightly," Castiel answered, smiling sleepily. He turned away from Dean, looking down.

"Are you okay?" Dean inquired, his voice going soft.

"Yes. I'm fine, Dean."

"If it's about last night, I-"

"No," Castiel said, turning back to Dean. "Last night- last night was fantastic, Dean. I had the time of my life."

"I'm glad, Castiel." Dean looked at his feet, attempting to hide a grin.

"I can see that. You're smiling."

"What? No I'm not."

Castiel shook his head at Dean. "Don't pretend you aren't."

"I'm not smiling," Dean said, looking up at Cas, his face a mask showing no emotion.

"I don't believe you for one second, Dean Winchester."

"Fine, don't believe it."

Castiel smiled. He felt his chest tighten. "Excuse me," he muttered, fishing through the pockets of his pajamas for a handkerchief, pulling one out in time for him to cough violently into it. He took a deep breath before checking for blood, praying that it was only a coughing fit. His heart dropped as he saw the red spots on the cloth, and he quickly wiped away any traces on his face.

"Castiel are you all right?"

He nodded, his chest heaving. Castiel knew what was coming next. "Go," he said, waving Dean away, his voice wheezy.

"Cas-"

"Dean, I'm fine. I just… need a moment. Go, enjoy your morning."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. I'll meet you after the café closes this afternoon. I'm sorry."

"It's fine, Castiel." Dean kissed him softly. "I'll see you later."

"See you."

Castiel could feel his chest tightening again, and after he had seen Dean out, he doubled over, coughs racking his body.

"Goddammit," he muttered, grimacing. "It's too fast. It's too fast. This can't be now. Not when I've just gotten to Paris. Not when I have this, have Dean. I have someone for god's sake."

* * *

"Merci, Monsieur Novak. Vous êtes vraiment un travailleur spectaculaire."

"Merci, er, de rien. Au revoir. À demain?" Castiel smiled at his supervisor, taking his apron off and hanging it on a hook.

"À demain."

Castiel nodded and headed out the back door of the café, the sun warming his face as he looked up into the sky.

"Fancy meeting you here, Castiel," a voice said to his left.

"Dean? I wasn't expecting you to be here as soon as we closed. You're usually still working."

"True. Slow day at the bar."

Castiel laughed, his eyes lighting up. "So they let their best bartender go early?"

"No. I was only scheduled for that time block."

"Ah. All right."

"How were things for you today?" Dean asked, beginning the short walk to their building.

"Steady, compared to last Friday. It was extremely busy last week. And I was even beginning my training then."

"The work is treating you well, isn't it?"

"Yes. And I'm learning more French every day, even though I studied it in school."

"School?"

"Yes, back in New York. School was the most amazing thing that could have happened to me. I was so lucky to be able to study."

"Why did you leave, then?"

"I-" Castiel paused, racking his brain for an answer that would still leave Dean in the dark. "I became disillusioned with society. I wanted to travel."

"But why Paris? Why not London, Rome or Madrid?"

"Everyone has been to London, and I had no desire to go to Italy or Spain. I wanted it to be France."

"Any particular reason?"

It's the place I had already told myself I wanted to live out the rest of my days, Castiel thought as he frowned.

"Castiel?"

"Uh, I've always had a desire to live in France- to experience it for myself. At least, before I die."

"Isn't that a little morbid? You have an entire life ahead of you, Cas."

"Not really," he murmured, praying Dean wouldn't hear him. "Yes, I suppose so. A whole life."

He stopped walking for a moment, imagining that life. A long life, where he could grow old with someone; he could have children and grandchildren. Shaking his head, he began walking again, leaving Dean behind.

"Castiel, wait!"

"What?" He turned to see Dean running after him.

"You shouldn't think and walk at the same time. You're too fast."

"I'm sorry." He smiled sheepishly. "I can't help it, Dean. I get lost in my thoughts too much."

"You're a writer, aren't you?"

Castiel was slightly taken aback. He eyed Dean questioningly. "How-"

"It's what you just said. 'Getting lost in your thoughts'. Only writers talk like that. You're a writer who's a hopeless romantic who moved to Paris to write and, if at all possible, to find someone to fall in love with. Tell me, Castiel: have you written anything yet?"

"I-" Dean silenced him with a soft kiss.

"You haven't, have you?"


End file.
